


We Have Built This Ship In A Wine Bottle

by cemeterycoffee



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Historical, Enemies to Lovers, Great Depression, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:40:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22370410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cemeterycoffee/pseuds/cemeterycoffee
Summary: "At this point, Frank couldn't decide which was more stupid -- that he actually thought he could get away with sailing a World War I ship across the ocean, or the fact that Gerard took mercy on him."AU in which Gerard is a lighthouse keeper and gives Frank 30 days to fix his ship and get off the island.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	1. Day 0

The salt of the frigid ocean water burned Frank’s lungs as the waves crashed over him. The onslaught of water had a force that would have thrust him backwards if not for the death grip he had on the helm. He dug his fingers into the wood of the wheel as he struggled against the storm.

The sky was raging a celestrial war -- a violent downpour and harsh lightning that turned the sea into a watery hell for anyone who was sailing across it. The waves rocked his ship vigorously back and forth. He could feel a tight ball of dread twisting inside him, making it hard to think or rationalize. He took a deep breath, knowing that panic would only distort his reasoning. What’s the worst that could happen, really? He’d die? After everything in the past 24 hours, he could only be thankful that he hadn’t already.

The angry sketches of clouds above him made the world seem dark, blotting out the moonlight and stars. His only guide came from a nearby lighthouse, that he could only barely make out through the rain. Frank grinded his teeth as more water came over him, flooding his ship and obscuring his vision. He moved the wheel frantically as the ship lurched forward.

When the rain came down harder, consequently making the tossing of the ocean worse, there was little Frank could do but accept that he was fucked. Thoroughly and absolutely fucked. He was no captain, no match for the sea’s anger, and he held onto the helm so tightly his hands went white, bracing himself. It could be worse. At least he wasn’t dying of starvation or at the hands of someone else. This was at least sort of heroic.

Frank heard one of the masts breaking under the pressure and sheer force of the brutal waves, saw the lightning flash so fiercely it lit up the world to reveal the fog of the sea and the outline of islands in the distance. He felt the whole ship jolt and go up forty-five degrees, being thrown to its side.

For a fleeting moment, Frank vaguely reflected on all of the stories his granddad had told him about the Navy. He wished he could tell him that his courageous sea stories were far more complex in practice than they were in theory. As he felt the ocean surface against his skin, he wondered what his granddad would think of him now.

He was still holding onto the helm when he went down with the ship.


	2. Days 1-3

Gerard’s shoes made a harsh clacking noise that perforated the stairway as he went down the steps. When he threw open the door, the rain pummeled his face, forcing him to raise a hand to protect his eyes from the water that had already drenched the front side of him.

Through the dark of the night and the gathering fog that swept in from the Pacific Ocean from the chaos of the ongoing storm, the shipwreck was merely a hazy silhouette. When he ran across the shore, he left footprints in the sand that filled quickly with water.

Back in the lightroom, he had tried to guide the ship to the best of his abilities, but all to no avail; the storm was too much for the crew, and he could only watch in terror as the Pacific swallowed the ship in its gaping mouth.

The crewmates would die. They would drown in the ocean, and the waves may eventually wash their corpses to shore, and that was inevitable. There was little he could do, and as cynical of a thought that it was, Gerard had long accepted its truth.

He had looked at the waves a long moment, then turned his attention back to his broken radio. It was mostly only good for weather predictions or automated messages about his food packages or mailing his monthly logs out to his head of command, but he was still mad at himself for breaking it.

But then had looked back up at the right moment; he had watched as the ocean regurgitated what it had swallowed. A wave that swept across the sea so violently that it threw the ship -- and its occupants, Gerard thought, but couldn’t be sure, -- out from the depths of the Pacific and onto the shore. He had dropped his broken radio in shock.

To say that it had been surprising would be an understatement. Gerard had seen ships go down many times. The ships always remained at the bottom of the ocean. The people would sink and then rise, afloat in the middle of the sea, eyes staring unwaveringly at the blue skies. 

He came to a stop in front of what remained of the ship. All masts had broken off, probably in the ocean somewhere, and everything that rested on the sand in front of him was too broken to ever be of any use again.

Underneath the figurehead of the ship was a man, unconscious, his arms hooked through the helm that had managed to stay in one piece. There was blood spilling from a wound on his head, and the dark red mingled with the rain as it beat down. From what he could tell, the man was still alive.

Gerard lifted the figurehead off of him, thrusting it to the side where it landed with a hard noise in the sand. He untangled the man’s arms from the helm, freeing his body, and lifted him into his arms. He wasn’t very big, and Gerard carried him across the sand and wet jagged rocks, back to the lighthouse facing the ocean.

The door was still ajar from where he had thrown it open. There were puddles of water already across the floor, and Gerard tracked in sand and pebbles and the trickle of blood when he made his way inside. 

Even though the man wasn’t very heavy, bearing his weight (especially when he was completely drenched) up the steep stairs proved to be difficult. The bedrooms weren’t on one of the lower floors -- it was right below the light room, towards the very top. Carrying him up was gruelling, and by the time he deposited his body onto the bed in the only spare room he had, he was already exhausted. Sitting up in the light room all night and morning didn’t provide a lot of physical exercise.

He needed to tend to the man’s injuries, or at least search for some form of identification, but the rest of the crew was probably still under the ruins of the ship -- most likely in worse condition, if alive at all. Gerard knew his first priority was to get everyone out okay and fully assess the situation.

However, as Gerard made his way down the stairs and ventured out to where the ship lay in pieces, there was nobody else to be found. He searched everywhere, sifting through planks and chunks of wood, overturning parts of the stern. Nothing, he realized, on his knees in the sand, splinters in his fingers from maneuvering the wooden parts.

Gerard realized that the man in the spare room was the only survivor of what had happened. His entire crew was dead, no bodies to bury, no indication that they had been aboard at all. He could only imagine the impending guilt of the sole survivor, knowing that everyone else had drowned in the ocean.

He made his way back to the lighthouse, grabbing the crate of the medical supplies from the second floor. He only had the bare necessities when it came to first aid, but it would probably be enough, as long as there weren’t any brain trauma or broken bones.

When he made his way quietly into the spare room, the man was still unconscious atop the covers, drenched and bleeding, oblivious to the disaster Gerard was sure he’d awake to. 

For the time being, Gerard did what he could, inspecting the man’s head first. There was a wound on his upper forehead, not deep enough to raise concern, only deep enough to result in blood loss. Surrounding it were a series of contusions, bruises that were painted in dark shades along his nose, forming a ring around his eyes. His lip had a crooked cut, dried blood on his mouth.

Gerard searched through the crate, stitching up his forehead wound, and using a rag soaked in warm water to clean his face. The worst of his injuries was a mildly sprained ankle, nothing that elevation, ice, and rest couldn’t fix in a week. The only physical risk that Gerard wasn’t sure of was if the man sustained a concussion.

He returned the crate to the second floor where he kept other things that didn’t fit in his room. Gerard figured he probably still had a couple hours until dawn. He made his way back up to the light room, seated in front of the glass pane where the light shone out on a sea that had a crew of men laying in its depths.

\--

The first thing Frank noticed was not the unfamiliar surroundings or the sound of the ocean waves slapping the rocks. It was the searing pain that shot up his legs, the dull ache of his face when he tried to yawn, the soreness of his entire body when he tried to roll over. 

He was hungover at the local pub in downtown Newark. Probably had one drink too many and the owner was gracious enough to let him crash on the couch in the upstairs studio apartment. He was nice, knew that things were hard for Frank right now. Frank wondered if he had gotten into a fucking bar fight again.

But then he slowly opened his hurting eyes, and noticed everything else.

The walls were a washed out grey; so light that it almost looked like a dirty white. He was atop a bed, no blanket over him, with a rolled up towel being used to prop up his leg. There was an empty dresser at the far end of the room, and on the other side was a small window with no curtains, overlooking a shore.

Right. The ocean. Where his fucking ship was and he, by some fucking miracle, wasn’t.

He rolled onto his back slowly, propping his elbows against the bed as he tried to sit up in a way that didn’t induce intense pain. He groaned at the effort, resting his back against the metal headboard. He wondered if he was actually dead. 

To top this whole shitty situation off, he didn’t know where the fuck he was. He hadn’t really expected to survive at all, let alone wake up on a bed where his injuries were being taken care of.

As he was shifting around, trying to test the limits of his injured leg, he heard the echo of footsteps, getting louder as they approached whatever room he was in. He immediately pressed his right hand to his lower thigh, where his gun would rest securely and hidden from sight.

And of course it wasn’t there. He cursed the ocean for not letting him die a peaceful death while he still had the chance. Because now he was in someone’s house on a fucking beach where no one would ever find him, and he had no way of defending himself or shooting himself if need be.

He didn’t know what danger lay in the loud footsteps that were now turning the door handle, but he prepared himself to do whatever was necessary, injuries be damned.

The door opened to reveal a man clad in some sort of uniform. He had a navy blue blazer buttoned up over a dress shirt and tie, dark slacks and black shoes that reflected the light, the reason why his footsteps made such a distinct sound. Strands of dark hair rested on his forehead, underneath a wide-brimmed cotton hat with a dark rounded top that was embroidered with a golden logo, and a black flat brim. The apparel made him look stern, made his eyes look stone cold.

Frank figured he was a military personnel or police of some sorts, though he couldn’t tell by his attire his level of importance. Just his luck, really.

“There’s fucking cops on deserted islands in the middle of no where?” Frank groaned, “You guys have too much time on your hands. I’m serious.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“Then what are you?” Frank leaned forward, trying to see if the not-cop had handcuffs to arrest him. He didn’t, not as far as he could tell anyway, but he probably had a weapon. Maybe even Frank’s gun.

“Sergeant Way,” he responded. 

“What does that mean?” He pressed, fingers digging into the scratchy material of the sheets.

“It means,” he responded slowly, as though he hadn't yet thought of what to say, “That my name is Sergeant Way. Is your head okay?”

Frank narrowed his eyes, “Is that your nice way of asking if I’m stupid?”

Sergeant Way only blinked in response, staring at the man with no change in facial expression other than confoundment. He looked at Frank as though he couldn't believe he was really there.

“No,” He crossed the room to stand at the foot of the bed, “I was curious. If you had a head injury.”

Frank gave him a hard look for a moment, trying to gauge if he could take him in a fight. Frank almost definitely had more experience with hand-to-hand fighting, but he was also injured. The Sergeant had the upper hand, until Frank got his gun, anyway.

“Not really. Do you?”

Sergeant Way furrowed his eyebrows, resting his hand on the frame of the bed, “You had a pretty gruesome head wound. I stitched it up, but I wasn’t very sure how hard the impact was when you hit shore. You had the figurehead of your ship on your head.”

His ship. If the figurehead had been on top of him... well, that meant the ship had crashed on the shore with him. He wasn’t at a lost. He just had to fix any minor repairs then set sail again.

He threw himself off the bed, stumbling as he put his weight on his hurt leg. His knees buckled, and he threw his hand out to catch himself using the frame of the bed. 

He took a deep breath and used his hand to push himself off the frame, giving him the force to stagger quickly forward. He stumbled to the door where Sergeant Way tried to block his way, hands against either side of the door frame.

“No --” Sergeant Way tried to start. 

Frank grabbed him by the collars of his dress shirt and threw him against the wall away from the door. Sergeant Way hit the wall with a hard thump, and had a moment where his surprise overtook him and hindered him motionless.

Frank used that moment to limp quickly through the small hall, nearly to the stairs when he felt hands catching the fabric of his jacket.

Sergeant Way had threaded his fingers through Frank’s jacket. Frank looked back at him dead in the eye, and took the jacket off, half-running half-staggering down the rest of the hall. When he got to the staircase, he tried to run down it, but mostly tripped as he descended the building. Sergeant Way was quicker than him, but Frank let himself mostly-fall down the stairs to gain momentum.

Sergeant Way chased after him, still clutching his still-soaked jacket in his hand as Frank opened the door and stumbled out onto the sand. A mist had settled over the shore, obscuring the rocks and gathering around his feet as he ran until he stopped before what was left of his ship. Sergeant Way came to a stop behind him.

“No,” Frank whispered, limping forward until he could crouch down by the helm. Then he yelled, kicking at the wood with his uninjured foot, “God fucking damn it!”

Frank could hear Sergeant Way as he settled down next to him in the sand. 

Sergeant Way took in a deep breath, then said, quietly: “I’m so sorry. You were the only one who survived.”

“What?” Frank asked, running his fingers along the wheel. 

“Your crew?” Way provided, “You were the only one I could find. The rest of them, I. I’m sorry. I really am.”

Frank set the helm into his lap. It was the only whole piece of the ship. He remembered the way he clutched it before all he saw was the dark, cold water. It was the last thing he remembered before he realized -- or thought, anyway -- that he was going to die.

“What? I never said I had a crew,” Frank scoffed, “I was travelling by myself.”

Sergeant Way cast him a confused look. “What do you mean, ‘you didn’t have a crew’?”

Frank pushed himself to his feet, leaning heavily against his right foot to prevent too much pressure on the injured one. He hoped the pain would subside soon; he hated having only one properly functioning leg. It was a pain in the ass.

“That I don’t have a crew. I really think you’re the one with the head problem.” Frank snickered as Sergeant Way rose to his feet, wind tousling the hair under his hat.

Sergeant Way gestured to dilapidated ship, wisps of fog washing over its destroyed ramparts.

“Why would you be on a ship alone? Especially one like this?”

Frank looked to where Gerard had his hand pointed in the ruins of the ship, “What’s it to you? You think I can’t sail a ship this big?”

Sergeant Way laughed bitterly. Frank saw that whatever sympathy he had fostered for him as a victim of a shipwreck was mostly gone. Maybe he should’ve lied and ran with Sergeant Way’s story. “Clearly not, since you wrecked it. This is a ship fit for the military. Tell me, why would you be sailing it in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with no one on it?”

Frank huffed indignantly, stepping forward to place himself directly in front of him, “That’s not your business.”

Sergeant Way met his gaze. “It became my business when you crashed here.”

“Last I checked, you don’t own this place.”

Frank pressed closer, almost chest-to-chest with the other man. The Sergeant didn’t step back, only stared at him evenly.

“You’d be right -- I don’t,” He responded cooly, “But I’m the keeper of the lighthouse, and I’m in charge of all activity on the Pigeon Point Bay.”

Sergeant Way flicked his eyes over him before finally taking a step back from Frank, continuing, “I’m calling to get you a rescue, and you’re leaving. Just tell me your name.”

Frank suddenly felt a twist in his gut, a sickening feeling that gathered in his abdomen when he realized the extent of the power Sergeant Way had over him now. Power that Sergeant Way didn’t realize he had. And it would stay that way, Frank assured himself. He just needed to be careful and play his cards right.

“I don’t have to tell you that,” his voice came out level. His fingers meddled with the hem of his shirt.

“You don’t want to be rescued?” Sergeant Way raised an eyebrow at him. 

Frank didn’t say anything. Of course he wanted off the island, but that simply wasn’t an option unless he could find a way to reconstruct his ship.

“I don’t need your name,” Sergeant Way shrugged, turning away to make his way back over the rocks, “I can still get you one, regardless.”

Frank trailed after him, shoes kicking up sand as he followed him over the shoreline. A cold wind blew in from the sea. Sergeant Way’s blazer lifted from his sides to wave in the air as he pressed forward through the rocks.

“No,” Frank asserted, “Don’t.”

Sergeant Way didn’t turn around or stop walking. 

“Don’t,” Frank repeated, more forcefully, “I don’t need -- nor want -- your fucking rescue.”

“Are you stupid?”

Frank swung his right leg forward, using it to lift himself up an inclination in the stone. “Listen --”

Sergeant Way’s pace quickened, urgent almost.

“Listen,” Frank repeated, struggling to keep up with his brisk walk, “If I get a rescue, I won’t be able to take my ship parts. That ship is important to me.”

He was lying through his teeth. He could only hope Sergeant Way wouldn’t be able to tell.

“It’s useless now. The masts aren’t there,” Sergeant Way reasoned, “It’s not only my obligation to get you out safely, but it’s illegal to not report any activity on here.”

Frank sped up until he was ahead of Sergeant Way, moving in front of him to stop him. Before Sergeant Way could get a word in edgewise, Frank punched him in the face, a sound grotesque to his ears as it sent Sergeant Way stumbling to his knees on the rocky overhang. Sergeant Way raised a hand tentatively to his face, and when he pulled it back, Frank saw it was covered in blood. 

If he could knock Sergeant Way unconscious, he thought quickly, he could tie him to a chair, and take his gun back. The guy seemed passive. They must be desperate for people after the Great War, Frank thought. He would work that to his advantage.

Sergeant Way forced himself to his feet swiftly, swaying back and forth as he struggled to gain balance. There was a steady stream of blood coming from his nose, spilling over his lips and dripping off his chin. It collected in a small pool of crimson on the rocks under their feet.

Frank placed his hands on his shoulders, shoving him backwards as he said, “You’re not going to report any activity here, got it? I’m going to build my ship and leave myself.”

Frank swung his fist back to punch him again. Sergeant Way didn’t say anything, the rise and fall of his chest was quick as he panted, taking in breaths. Wordlessly, before Frank could hurt him again, Sergeant Way slid the gun that Frank had neglected to see and pressed it calmly against Frank’s neck. Sergeant Way angled it upwards, the muzzle pressed into his Adam’s apple.

Frank swallowed, inhaling slow and deep as he looked down at the gun pressed into his skin, hard enough to leave an imprint without even shooting a bullet. As he glanced down, he realized Gerard’s finger wasn’t on the trigger. He lowered his raised hand.

Alright, so he wasn’t as passive as he came across as. Lesson learned.

“Okay,” he said, finding it difficult to form the words when a gun was putting pressure on his neck, “Give me a month. One month and I will fix my ship and leave. I’ll help you around the lighthouse. Help you with your duties and everything.”

Frank paused, eyes still fixated on the gun. He shifted his gaze upwards to where his former ship lay in ruins. “Just don’t say anything about me. They’ll take my ship away. It’s an important ship to me, alright? One month, and if I’m not gone, report me. I fucking swear.”

Sergeant Way kept the gun at his neck, eyes boring into Frank’s when he lifted them to flick over his face. After a second, Sergeant Way lowered the gun, but didn’t completely put it away.

“Alright,” Sergeant Way said, “One month. And I still want your name.”

Frank hesitated for a moment. “Frank,” he said honestly.

“Gerard,” Sergeant Way, er, Gerard, replied shortly.

Gerard then pushed pass Frank, the trickle of blood still coming from his nose, leading the way back to the lighthouse. He trailed behind him, feeling lucky that Gerard had taken mercy on him, but wondering what his true intentions were. Maybe Gerard would shoot him in his sleep.

Frank cast a glance back at the ship he knew little about, and wondered if he’d just have to float on a single piece of wood in the ocean until he found somewhere else. That idea seemed less outlandish than the thought of being able to rebuild his ship from broken parts and no masts.

He followed Gerard into the lighthouse, who gave him quiet, stern directions to rest his leg before he did any labor. He settled into the bed he had woken up in that morning, propping his leg back up when Gerard brought in some ice. He handed the bag of ice to him, and only when he gave him it was Frank able to see the dark circles and exhaustion that were in Gerard’s eyes.

Gerard left the room, and even though Frank hadn’t been awake that long, the aching pain in his body and injured leg lulled him back into a dreamless void.

\--

Admittedly, letting Frank stay at the Bay -- especially without any word on it to the Lighthouse Service -- was risky. Risky was an understatement; what Gerard was doing could cost him his job, and he was breaking federal law.

The fact of the matter was, he didn’t have a choice. His radio was broken, meaning he didn’t even have a way of calling for someone. The most he could do was wait until he got his next shipment, where he could then ask for help or mail out a letter. That was a while away, though, and he had to keep Frank convinced he could call on the radio anytime he liked. That man was stubborn and unrelenting.

Not to mention that no one ever came to the Bay. Even his shipments were scarce, considering the post-war condition that the country was suffering in. The likelihood of anyone noticing Frank was low. Gerard just needed to fix his radio before the month was up and Frank caught on. Gerard knew that Frank wouldn’t be able to fix the ship at all, much less in 30 days.

So Frank stayed. And Gerard, though he acted like he had reluctantly did so, let him. 

For the first couple days, things felt unchanged from the normal routine. Gerard woke up in the early evening, went about a few of his duties while there was still sunlight, then he’d make his way up into the lightroom to sit in his chair as the beam of light fell upon the stillness of the ocean. He mostly read or wrote letters to his family, or worked on his monthly report (leaving out the most noteworthy of his week). Frank was mostly asleep when Gerard was awake, and was too injured to do much of anything when he was.

On the third night after Frank’s arrival, Gerard heard the echo of steps permeate the silent building as he held a book in his hand, fixated mostly on the words on the page rather than the calmness of the water that held no ships. The reverberating of the footsteps grew louder and then stilled completely, as the door to the lightroom was open. Gerard glanced up from his novel even though there was only one person on Earth it could be.

Frank shut the door behind him, moving past Gerard to stop in front of the glass that looked out onto an ocean that didn’t seem to ever end; just a vast blueness, divided only by the expanse of the dark sky, and a beam of white light that illuminated the gentle toss of waves. When Frank moved forward, Gerard could see he wasn’t limping anymore.

Gerard shifted his eyes back down to the novel, but found it hard to read when there was another person standing in the room with him. The thought of it was surreal. He read the same sentence several times until he put the book down completely, looking to where Frank was still looking out.

“This is what you do?” Frank asked, not moving his eyes from where it was fixated on the moon pulling ocean tides, “Just sit up here, read?”

Gerard put his book down on the floor next to him, “Pretty much.”

Frank didn’t say anything for a moment, “Is that what you were doing the night I crashed?”

Gerard paused. “If you’re trying to imply that I wasn’t trying to do anything for you that night, you’re wrong.”

Frank finally turned from where he had been looking out, “Or did I crash because you were too focused on reading?”

Frank walked to stop right in front of Gerard, and Gerard couldn’t help but take notice of how torn and ragged his clothes were from the wreck. The shirt was stained in dark hues of red from the bleeding of Frank’s head, his pants ripped and wrinkled.

“I still look out,” Gerard rolled his eyes, knowing Frank was challenging him just be an ass, “I can’t just look at the ocean my every waking moment. Besides, it’s not so much me that saves people’s lives; it’s the light.”

Frank only hummed in reply. Gerard forced himself to look away from Frank. He still couldn’t process the whole thing. It wasn’t the miracle of Frank surviving the shipwreck as much as it was the fact that someone else was living with him. After years of only briefly seeing people, and interacting with friends and family purely through letter, it felt foreign. Especially with someone as lively and... unfiltered as Frank.

Frank bent down to pick up the book Gerard had abandoned, flipping through the pages before letting it drop back to the ground in boredom. When Gerard didn’t react, he said, “You really don’t get bored up here?”

Gerard took that into consideration. He did get bored, but not in the normal sense. It wasn’t his duty as lighthouse keeper that made him bored -- he enjoyed the peaceful nights of watching the sea and reading, he loved walking along the shoreline in the morning, he didn’t even mind keeping up with the various chores.

What made him bored was that he was so confined in his own head. He tried to keep up with family and friends through his letters, but the reality was, when you’re on an island isolated from the rest of society, your relations weaken. Gerard came to find that being away from everyone and everything formed drifts -- like the space between Pigeon Point Bay and the rest of the world.

His life became a sort of monotonous cycle. The simplicity was comforting, in some respects. Constraining in others. But he found enough fulfillment in it to never want to leave. He was doing good in the world. He was in love with the ocean.

“Not really,” was all he said, instead of voicing his thoughts, and for good measure he added, “But now I have you here to distract me... as you are now.”

Frank scoffed, “Asshole. You’re distracted enough, sitting here doing anything but looking at the ocean.”

“Right,” Gerard replied, slowly, “You want to make yourself useful for a change? Second floor storage, to the right there’s cleaning supplies. Sweep the landings and clean the tower windows.”

Frank grunted, “So I’m a maid.”

“No,” Gerard said, picking his book up again, “You’re useless. Go clean.”

Frank scoffed again, leaving the light room to, Gerard hoped at least, clean.

The rest of the night found Gerard reading the same sentences continuously, trying to make sense of words in the fog that filled his mind. He couldn’t dissipate it when he heard the clatter of objects three floors below him. Each sound was a constant reminder that the emptiness that once filled the lonely lighthouse was gone, manifested in the noise of shifting objects and distant footsteps.


	3. Days 4-7

Frank cleaned windows that had the salt of the sea stained onto them, sweeping pebbles and stray seaweed from the wooden stairs. He cleaned the boat house, helped Gerard to polish the Fresnel lens as the sun started to arch above the skyline.

He did this for a couple days with no break in routine -- just the steady sound of the water droplets falling into a bucket as Frank wrung out rags, and Gerard flipping pages when he kept watch. Frank adjusted his schedule to fall in line with Gerard’s, until they were both getting up in the evening, and sleeping in the early afternoon.

Gerard was turning the light off as the rosy hues and vermillion gold of the sunrise slanted through the windows, washing over the lighthouse equipment and silhouetting his frame against the onslaught of light.

Frank watched him, sweeping up some sand that had been trailed in from the beach. As the glow from the sunrise fell over the floor, he finished sweeping the last remains of wet sand. He put the broom and its dustpan against the wall in the corner. 

“Do you want to see the garden?” Gerard asked, and Frank looked at him from the corner of his eyes. “I might have you do work on it.”

“You have a garden?” Frank asked, not knowing where he’d managed to keep a garden in all the sand and rocks.

“Sure,” Gerard shrugged, “It’s deeper into the island.”

Gerard pushed open the lightroom door that had been left ajar, and Frank followed him down the winding steps and outside. They made their way over the slick rocks where the sea gently beat against its jagged edges, and down into the sand.

Gerard turned to the left, away from the ocean and the lighthouse, across the expanse of sand that led into the tropical trees and dark foliage off in the distance. There was dew on the overgrowth, clinging to the vines that curled around trunks, and dripping down the leaves of plants. It collected on Frank’s pants and brushed against his arms as he followed Gerard through.

“Are there animals here?” Frank asked, using his hand to push aside plants.

“Birds, maybe,” Gerard answered without looking back at him, leading him on some sort of nonsensical path, “Insects.”

Eventually, the plants thinned out to be less overwhelming, revealing a clearing, a perfect square of dirt where a plethora of plants were growing. The dew that clung to them made them glisten in the morning sun.

“Is this your source of food?” Frank asked, skirting around plants and dropping down to his knees to look at a patch of growing grapefruits, “Just whatever miscellaneous fruits and vegetables you can grow here?”

Gerard was inspecting the leaves of another plant a couple feet beside him. “No. I get food shipments, but most of it is canned. Canned bread is... awful.”

The mud was staining the material of the pants Gerard gave him as he shifted forward to look at spinach. The air itself felt damp, humid and heavy. Out on the beach, there were cold breezes brought in from the sea, but with the thick barrier of greenery and vegetation, it was warm and muggy.

Gerard showed him a few more of the plants, commenting on needing to water them later. Frank figured Gerard would probably make him do it. After, they made the trek back to the lighthouse. They were slightly streaked in mud, the backs of their shirts clinging to the skin of their backs from sweat. They ventured out through the trees and back to the beach. The sun was fully up by then, the sky depicted in a creamy blue.

Frank followed Gerard into one of the storage floors, where he shifted through crates and containers to drag out paint and paintbrushes. He carried them down to the bottom floor, resting the materials by the door.

“The condensation means that I constantly have to repaint in here, but we’ll do that tomorrow,” Gerard said, setting down the last bucket of paint, “I’m going to bed.”

Frank only nodded, and Gerard disappeared up the steps to his room. 

Frank made his way back outside, traversing the shoreline to where his ship lay in its pieces, now covered in a light dusting of sand.

He stooped down, surveying the damage for the first time in days. He had gotten caught up in his injuries and then in adjusting to his life in the lighthouse, but not anymore -- he needed to focus on finding a way to fix the ship. When the month ended, he was fucked if he had no way out.

He started to sift through the remains, organizing them in an erratic way that made no sense even to Frank. Some parts were easy to discern -- the figurehead, the helm, the bowsprit --, but the larger, less distinct pieces -- the keel especially, Frank thought bitterly -- were impossible to work with. They were broken into too many parts to know what went where, or to salvage them at all.

Not to mention the ship was an older model, outdated by over 20 years. Frank’s knowledge on ships was limited in general, so when it came to a ship that was almost as old as he was, he was at a loss. He could sail it decently, and the extent of his knowledge ended there.

He dropped a broken piece of the hull into another pile, feeling the weight of exhaustion and frustration heavy on him. He stared in disbelief at the fragments of his ship. He still found it unfathomable that he had gotten into this situation at all. If he had left later, left earlier, hadn't left at all...

But he knew he hadn't had a choice. He'd have to redo his entire life, from the day he was born until the day he left for sea, to avoid this happening to him. 

Frank briefly wondered what'd he do if he couldn't fix the ship at all. Steal the boat from the boathouse? Gerard would report him. Kill Gerard and then steal the boat? Gerard had a gun, not him.

He smothered the doubts that arose in his mind. He'd fix his ship. He would.

He trudged back to the lighthouse, his footsteps feeling heavy against the sand and rocks. He was drained and exhausted. He didn't know what to do.

\--

Gerard was cracking open the metal cans of paint, feeling drops out of it spray from the tin and onto his shirt. He tried painting in his uniform once -- never again.

Frank returned with the last of the cans, the paintbrushes tucked under his arm. Gerard had heard him that previous morning hauling pieces of the ship around. From what he could tell, Frank had made no progress at all (other than moving them around and kicking the broken pieces, calling them useless pieces of shit). He didn't understand why he valued the damn thing so much. It was broken beyond repair. Was Frank so opposed to accepting his help that he'd really try to sail on broken ship parts? With no masts? Not that Gerard could really help him anyway without his radio.

Gerard shrugged it off. He cared less what Frank did in regards to supposedly “rebuilding” his ship. In fact, if Frank swam off into the ocean to get home with the ship pieces strapped to his back, Gerard would just watch. Frank didn’t have any real effect on his life. He was only keeping him because his radio was broken, right?

“What's the point in painting a building no one sees?” Frank groaned as he dropped the cans to the ground. He made quick work on opening them, “Seems like a waste of time.” 

“The same reason why I wear a uniform when no one sees me,” Gerard shrugged, “The same reason why I do anything here.”

“Because you’d jump into the ocean out of boredom if you didn’t?”

Gerard scoffed. “Because it’s my job.”

Frank finished opening the cans of paint and grabbed for the paint brushes he had settled on the smooth rocks outside of the lighthouse. “Your job is to do pointless chores that no one even watches you perform, shine your light into a body of water in the middle of nowhere, and eat canned bread.”

Gerard grabbed a paintbrush, ignoring the way Frank was smirking at him.

“So, to summarize: you have no life.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Gerard could see Frank watching him. Gerard gave him an unaffected look, beginning to ascend the ladder that was slanted against the exterior of the building. Frank shrugged then delved his paintbrush into the white paint, beginning to make even strokes against the outside of the lighthouse.

They worked in silence for awhile, the only sounds were the ocean waves against the sand and rocks or Gerard descending the ladder to prop it up against a different part of the lighthouse. The sun beat into his back, making the exposed skin around his shoulders and arms feel tight as he worked in the heat of the afternoon.

He was shifting the ladder to the right of where it just was, making sure it was steady before he made his way up its shaky metal steps. Directly below him, Frank was overlapping where Gerard had painted to make it look like a smooth expanse of white, as though it had been painted by one person in one neat stroke.

He got to the step below the top, using the actual top step of the ladder to place his can of paint, and to press his left hand against as a means of maintaining balance without actually touching the wall. It felt good to just be lost in thought as he mindlessly painted. As if everything hadn’t become so strange. As if his routined and methodical life didn’t suddenly feel out of control with a new force he simply couldn't control. As if he didn’t feel that difference deep in his very core.

As he leant over the top step to get to a place he had missed, his forearm hit the can of paint sitting there, and all he could do was watch helplessly as it toppled over. The paint went pouring below, immediately flowing over the top of Frank’s unsuspecting head, and spilling over his clothes. 

There was a silence as the can had completely emptied itself of paint, until the lack of weight made it susceptible to the breeze that made it roll off the ladder and clatter to the ground at Frank’s feet.

Gerard only stared with wide eyes as the scene unfolded, and Frank seemed frozen in the aftermath as well. He was looking at the mess of paint in a state of disbelief, paint in the crevices of his hands and dripping from the ends of his hair.

Gerard made his way down the ladder quickly, the sound of his shoes against the metal suddenly loud against the silence. It seemed to last forever until his feet hit the ground, and he approached Frank with the same precaution he had done when he thought Frank’s crew had died.

“Shit,” Gerard said, picking up the now empty can of paint that was rolling down the rocks, “Did you swallow any paint?”

Frank shifted his eyes up at Gerard without answering, and he noticed that even his eyelashes had formed a coating of paint. Wordlessly, Frank broke from his paralyzed state to grab the can he had been using to paint. As though it came as naturally to him as anything else, he picked it up and dumped it over the top of Gerard’s head.

It came pouring down over him, making his clothes cling to his body in the sticky liquid, getting under his shirt and in his shoes. He screwed his eyes shut as it came sliding down his face.

With his eyes still shut, all he heard was silence, and then, Frank’s laughter.

Frank was laughing so hard he was gasping for breath, and Gerard forced his eyes open against that paint that already started to feel like it was drying, and saw the man doubled over from the force of his laughing.

“What,” Gerard deadpanned, “What the fuck.”

Frank didn’t reply, only clutched at his paint-soaked shirt as he choked on his laughter. He stopped for a moment, just panting heavily, but the minute he looked back up at Gerard, he erupted into laughter again. 

Gerard looked at him incredulously. Not only had they wasted two cans of paint, but now they would be wasting time by having to clean themselves up before Gerard had to be up in the lightroom. Gerard didn’t swallow any of the paint or get any of it in his eyes, but the fumes of it made him feel nauseous. 

“You have issues,” Gerard grumbled, irritably. He could feel the paint drying in the crevices of his fingers, hardening his hair and ruining his clothes for good, “You don’t have an ounce more maturity than most children I know.”

Frank was grinning brighter than Gerard had ever seen and he wanted to wipe that stupid smile right off his paint-streaked face.

“Why do you perpetually have a stick up your ass?” Frank retorted, stifling laughter, “I think it’s important to note you dumped paint on me first.”

“Mine was pure accident!” Gerard exclaimed indignantly, trying not to give Frank the reaction Gerard knew he wanted, but failing to stifle his annoyance. 

“So was mine,” Frank snickered, peeling his shirt from off his body and depositing it on the rocks, “I meant to throw the whole can at your face and accidentally dumped it on you instead.”

Gerard watched him remove his shirt and pants, not able to think for a moment as he stared at Frank’s bare skin. He quickly looked away, chalking up his hesitation to being lightheaded from the paint fumes. He still felt infuriatingly annoyed at Frank’s audacity to do the shit he did. After all, to Frank’s knowledge, he was on this island by Gerard’s mercy alone. And yet, Frank acted like he was the one that was doing Gerard a favor rather than the other way around. It made him feel worked up in ways he couldn’t comprehend.

Frank moved past Gerard, leaning down to collect ocean water in his palms to splash his face clean from the paint. Gerard followed after him, standing behind him in the sand. 

“I’m so sick of you,” Gerard said as he walked out into the water, watching as some of the paint came off his skin and filtered into the ocean. “You act so entitled.”

Frank scrubbed at the coating of paint on his arms. “I said I’d do your chores, not be your friend.”

“You just can’t have the decency to act your age?” Gerard asked, not making any attempt to wash the paint off him. It was drying to his skin and forming clumps in his hair. “You’d think someone who almost died a week ago wouldn’t still act like he’s barely an adult.”

“Life’s not meant to be taken seriously.” 

Gerard didn’t know how Frank could say something like that -- if life wasn’t meant to be taken seriously, then what was the point of living? It would mean that everything is done in vain, and Gerard couldn’t imagine having a mentality that didn’t emphasize the importance of accomplishing something in life.

“What, then? You don’t care that you could’ve died last week?”

“No, I don’t care,” Frank said with ease. He was scrubbing at his neck where the paint was etched into his skin. He looked at Gerard from the side and added with a grin, “And if I was dead, I wouldn’t have to be here.”

“I don’t know how you can think like that.”

“And I don’t know why you don’t lighten up,” Frank snickered. He was wading around in the water now. “You’d think you were the one who had a brush with death, Jesus.”

“I can’t lighten up when I have to babysit after you,” Gerard said. The heat was making the paint uncomfortable against his skin, and he tried to scratch it off.

“Hey, you’re the one who let me stay here,” Frank replied, kicking water into Gerard’s face as he swam past him. 

“After you begged me!” He argued. Frank kicked more water into his face. “Quit splashing me.”

“No. You’re all dirty anyway,” he swung his arms to send water flying at Gerard, “I’m helping you!”

“You’re helpless,” Gerard groaned, “I should tie you to the boat in the boathouse and just push you out to sea already.”

Frank kept kicking up water as he swam around Gerard, grinning devilishly at Gerard’s clear annoyance. “But you won’t, because you lack the balls to break the rules, right?”

“You ‘lack the balls’ to sail a ship correctly,” Gerard said, not knowing why he was taking Frank’s bait. He was just trying to get a rise out of him, and Gerard knew that, yet still kept playing into it. He had a feeling Frank thought he was a pushover, or that he only presented himself as rough to compensate for weakness, which wasn’t like him at all (in Gerard’s opinion, at least). But he needed to stop trying to defend himself to someone who was just trying to get a reaction out of him. He needed to walk away.

“I think I know that best out of everyone,” Frank stopped in front of Gerard in the water. “Are you going to fight me or just keep throwing out empty threats?”

“Fight you? You want me to fight you?” 

“No, I want you to blow me,” Frank rolled his eyes, “Yes, I want you to fight me!”

“You must be a masochist.”

“And you must be a pussy!” Frank challenged, “C’mon, Gerard. Prove me wrong.”

Gerard gave him a hard look. Just walk away, he thought, it’s what was best. He wasn’t going to give Frank a reaction, and he wasn’t going to waste his energy fighting someone who was injured and bored. He should just go back into the lighthouse and clean himself in the bath before he had to go up to the lightroom for the night.

“No,” Gerard stated, pushing past Frank to walk to shore.

“Pussy,” Frank retorted in passing, and there it was; that same insult. “If you’re scared of me beating you, I’ll go easy.”

“I’m not scared of you beating me.”

“Why threaten to tie me up and send me away if you won’t act on it?”

Gerard just scoffed in reply, until, all in one quick, incomprehensible second, the air was being knocked out of him, followed by the sudden pain of hitting the ocean ground.

He lay dazed in the swallow water for a long minute, feeling a spell of vertigo wash over him from the abruptness of his situation. He forced himself up to his knees, spitting out salt water. He staggered to his feet where Frank was standing above him, laughing.

Gerard bit the inside of his cheek, looking Frank up and down, “Fine.”

Frank smiled -- honest to god smiled -- and opened up his arms. “I kicked you, so go on. Swing first.”

The man really was a masochist, Gerard decided. That, or he was too ballsy for his own good.

Gerard shrugged and stepped forward to harshly shove Frank. Frank stumbled backwards in the water and laughed at him in surprise.

“Really?” He chuckled, “You don’t even want to punch me?”

Frank reeled forward and punched Gerard in his upper jaw, causing his head to swing violently from the impact. He staggered to the side as the hit was delivered, almost causing him to lose his footing. He cradled the injured part of his head, the pain of it feeling hot and exploding beneath his skin.

He withdrew his hand slowly, straightening his posture as he turned around to bash his fist against Frank’s face. Frank swerved to dodge it, but to no avail, as it fell against his shoulder blade instead. Gerard watched as Frank recoiled from the pain momentarily, but recovered quickly as he lunged forward.

Frank threw himself at Gerard and Gerard caught it just quickly enough to shove himself into the man as he came at him, sending them both falling under the water. Frank elbowed him across the face as they sunk downwards, his elbow catching Gerard on his mouth, and Gerard could feel as his lip split and blood started spilling over his lips. Gerard shoved Frank off of him, enough to swim upwards and break the surface to breathe. His mouth stung as he spat out blood. 

Frank followed him out of the water, making no haste in retaliating with a hard punch to the gut. Gerard groaned, and grabbed his arms to force them backwards to the shore. Fighting in the water made it too difficult to move.

Frank struggled out of his grip as they stumbled to the shore. Quickly, Gerard delivered a swift punch to Frank’s stomach that sent him flying to the hard, rocky ground.

As Frank started to lift himself from the ground, Gerard kicked him in the side, sending him back down. Frank let out a groan that Gerard barely caught before he kicked one more time. Frank rolled over as Gerard swung his foot at him, weakening the blow of it. With trembling limbs, Frank forced himself up. 

Frank’s fist was shaking as he punched Gerard in the chest. It hardly hurt at all, and Gerard punched Frank in the stomach again. This time, he fell over from throwing up rather than the force of it. 

Frank spilled bile liquid all over Gerard’s shoes, most of it just being stomach acid and salt water. Gerard moved to kick him again (and hopefully end the fight), but Frank caught Gerard’s ankle and pulled him straight to the ground.

“Jesus,” Frank said in a raw, gritty voice as threw himself on top of Gerard, straddling him with all of his weight to keep him down. Gerard shifted underneath him, lifting his head to spit blood out on Frank’s face. Frank punched him hard between his eyes, sending his head backwards and hitting the ground with a pain that made him dizzy. 

Frank was practically hyperventilating, clutching his stomach with one hand and trying to punch Gerard with his other one. Gerard punched him in the nose and Frank easily fell off of him and off to the side in a bloody mess.

Gerard lifted himself slowly but surely, feeling bruises swelter across his face, but feeling nowhere as badly as Frank looked. He was in a fetal position on the ground, but slowly moved to his knees. When Gerard looked down at him, Frank shot him a bright grin. 

“I’m not done,” he said in a hoarse voice from throwing up, but his grin didn’t falter. Gerard thought the man was gutsy and bold, but also completely out of his mind. There was vomit and blood all over him, and he looked like death warmed over. 

“Well, I am,” Gerard replied as he saw Frank stumble to his feet to move towards him. He had proved his point to Frank about not being scared to fight him, but he didn’t feel that good about it. “You should go get cleaned up.”

Frank looked like he was about to argue, but Gerard cut him off by walking away and disappearing into the lighthouse to clean up.


End file.
